


Just the Once

by Riachinko



Category: Paul (2011)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Sexuality Crisis, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26420002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riachinko/pseuds/Riachinko
Summary: Gay? No! Why do people keep saying that?Clive and Graeme share a kiss, to prove that Clive is 100% undoubtedly Not Gay.
Relationships: Clive Gollings/Graeme Willy
Kudos: 13





	Just the Once

"Guys, let's get fucked up!" 

  
  
  
  


Before too long, Graeme is yawning not-so-subtly into his sleeve. They've had a few drinks, filled their gullets, and their fire's died down enough to be manageable with the bucket of sand they've kept beside the pit. 

Clive pokes the Indiglo button on his watch to reveal that it's 12:33 in the morning, though it seems even later beneath the moonless sky, in the middle of this desert town in Utah without light pollution. There's no indication of movement from the other docked trailers down the way. 

For once, the world just seems uncharacteristically...peaceful.

Pushing out his chest, Clive echoes his friend, yawning loudly as he leans to crack his back. He's been so tense ever since he and Graeme became Paul's unwitting entourage, the shift in his bones feels brilliant. 

"Well, I'm going to get some shut-eye," he says, standing to roll his shoulders next. He stretches his arms one by one before taking his first step towards the RV. "Graeme?" 

"No," Graeme startles, mop of orange hair flipping about when he turns his head suddenly, "well, we shouldn't leave--" 

He nods towards Paul.

And fair, maybe they shouldn’t leave Paul alone and unprotected right now, but he’s done a fairly decent job of surviving on his own thus far. They aren't made to be Secret Service.

"N'ahh, you guys go ahead. I wanna sit out here a little while longer." 

Paul's bulbous head tips back against their lot-assigned picnic table, obscured by a ring of cigarette smoke that dissipates into the sky above him. "It's been a long time since I just…looked at the stars," he says.

The orange glow of the bonfire runs across his lithe body, accentuates every little pore and crevice of alien flesh. He's got his legs kicked up, looks more comfortable than perhaps he has a right to be, given the situation, but in this moment he seems almost - sort of - human. 

Graeme shrugs, then, pushing himself up off the ground. "Right then, I could do with some sleep too," he says with a half-hearted salute as he trails behind Clive into the Traveller Beagle.

The bedroom at the back is just big enough to walk between the two single cots it houses, and to close the door at the foot of the aisle. 

In all their years of friendship, sleeping together - or at the very least, nearby - has never been much of an issue. Hasn't been weird. Their arms brush as Clive fluffs his pillow and Graeme straightens the blankets on their respective beds, close quarters feeling downright claustrophobic in the dim yellow lamplight washing over them.

This feels weird. 

Lengthy strands of chocolate brown hair fall from behind his ear and into Clive's eyes as he moves, and he sits on his bed in a huff, crestfallen. 

And then Graeme sits too, beside him, so close that their thighs press together and his right knee knocks Clive’s left. He reaches up, pushes his friend’s hair delicately back behind his ear.

Clive startles, face gravely serious when their eyes meet. 

"What's on your mind, Sausage?"

Immediately, Clive’s stomach ties itself into knots - it could be the pilsner? "Nothing," he says lowly, and his chest feels tight. "It's alright."

"Oh, come on, you know I don’t believe that." Their connection breaks when Graeme looks down at his feet. "If this is about Paul…"

Clive huffs a laugh under his breath, careful not to have hair fall into his face again as he shakes his head shallowly. 

"Earlier, when you weren't there…he asked if we were…you know. Gay." 

His toothy half-smile fades into a tight-lipped frown, then, and following Graeme's gaze, finds that his trainers are suddenly very interesting indeed. 

Graeme leans back, digging his palms into the camo fleece throw beneath him, folded down on the lower half of the cot. He snorts - doesn’t _quite_ laugh - but it’s clear that he finds this at least a little bit amusing. 

"So? We're not."

"He says on _his_ planet, everyone's bisexual."

Graeme does laugh, now. 

"Well," his head bobbles, floundering momentarily for words. "That seems like a pretty believable alien thing to me. What's the big deal? It doesn't have anything to do with us."

The trill of crickets chirping outside their bedroom window becomes more unbearable the longer Clive says nothing. A breeze wafts in and out through the slats, making the curtains flutter and flail and reach out towards them - a metaphor, maybe, he'll use in his next book.

He draws in a breath and holds it; throws himself back against the bed until he's leaning partially against the side of the vehicle, and exhales when the paneling isn't digging into his shoulder blades. 

"I don't know. What if everyone is always asking us because they can see something we can't?"

His eyebrow twitches with uncertainty, and he doesn't dare look at Graeme when the man turns to face him.

"Clive," he smiles, slapping a warm, encompassing hand down onto his friend's leg, "you wrote an entire novel about a space queen with three boobs. You're as straight as they come."

And, fair play. But Jelva enslaved men and made them wear Jarvakian loincloths, didn't she? And to boot, maybe part of the reason Jenny Starpepper novels are so enticing is that she always ends up with the perfect specimen of intergalactic man. 

"Agree to disagree," Clive mumbles, absolutely red in the face. Every muscle in his body tenses under Graeme's well-intentioned touch when his brow begins to furrow in confusion. "I don't know. I just mean that maybe I would…try it…"

Graeme pulls his hand away nearly instantly. He curls his feet up underneath him, positioning himself beside Clive - their thighs are no longer touching and it's hell - observing him critically. The bags under his eyes seem to get darker, or maybe Graeme is getting paler. 

"Come on," he balks. "You're taking the piss."

Clive doesn't have it in him to reply, but the frown deepening on his face speaks for him. He worries his lower lip, runs the tips of his fingers through long hair, taming stray threads into place.

"Ah," Graeme squeaks, taps his fingers rhythmically on his knee. 

An eternity seems to pass between them, except, it's only a minute - a fact that Clive knows for certain, because he can't stop fiddling with the button on his watch and 12:47 keeps lighting up in teal. 

"Okay, let's try it," Graeme says at last. "I mean, just a kiss. Just the once, to make sure."

He looks so sure of himself, and of Clive; of their combined heterosexuality. 

Clive isn't. 

He looks at his friend with tired, tipsy eyes - looks at lips framed with a scruffy, rusty beard that only gets properly groomed when there's a chance of meeting a girl in the near future. He doesn't know if he finds Graeme especially physically attractive, but he knows he'd follow him anywhere on Earth and beyond, and he knows he has an urge to kiss him. 

"Noo," he drawls, "just forget it. I don't think I want this trip to get any weirder than it already is."

Graeme's sitting upright on his heels now, a little bit bouncy, even. His eyes are still eagle-wide, but now they sparkle with anticipation; aren't clinical and disbelieving like before. 

"You can't back out now," he chides. "Just the once!"

He nestles down so that they're shoulder to shoulder, leaning gently into each other against the trailer wall. Clive turns his head, cheeks pink under dark stubble; the tips of his ears are on fire. Surely everything about him must be betraying his true feelings, but it all seems to be trivial to Graeme. 

Channeling stoicism worthy of Bruce Wayne, he sighs coolly; pushes up off the wall, and Graeme props himself up likewise. A hand floats up - Clive can see it coming in the periphery of his vision - and cups his chin, thumb smoothing over stubble at the corner of his mouth. 

And then Graeme is leaning in slowly - so agonizingly _slowly_ \- until their parted lips are ghosting one another's; his breath is stale with Stella Artois and chocolate Pocky. 

The build-up to the main event seems to stretch on forever. 

The redhead closes the gap between them - always has been a little more outgoing of the two of them - and immediately Clive is snorting hot air through his nose, gurgling in his throat before pulling away in an outburst of laughter. 

"What was _that_!?" Graeme squeals, wiping his face with the back of his hand. The sharp tone of voice means he's a bit miffed, but a smile starts to grow as his tongue darts between his lips and he continues, "I don't think now is the time for a bloody...Wookie impression."

"I'm sorry!" Clive laughs, eyes closed, and maybe he's actually finally starting to feel comfortable again. He motions at his face, fingers wiggling through the air, pointing at his chin, "I wasn't expecting the beard! It tickled. Let's go again."

Graeme takes a deep breath, allowing his smirk to shrink as he exhales steadily - "Okay?" - and is ready to try again. 

This time, Clive initiates; leaning into Graeme tentatively - eyelids flickering half open so that he can't miss and fuck it all up - and pressing pillowy lips to his best mate's. 

It's soft, and tender, and just like kissing a woman when he gets past the ticklish scratch of facial hair. Their noses don't bump, and they fit together like proper puzzle pieces do. 

With how close they are now, Graeme must surely feel the thunderous pounding of his heart; must notice the volcanic heat rolling off of him when Graeme's lip drags against Clive's and they instinctively press their mouths harder together.

Graeme sighs, a little bit softly, in the back of his throat, and Clive's never heard such a sound in person, and it's stellar; makes the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He opens his mouth slightly, praying that Graeme takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. 

But that's where it ends.

Graeme breaks away, looking well chuffed, and it's all Clive can do to pull himself together; lick Graeme's saliva off his lips and sit up properly to hide the half-chub that's managed to get the better of his frazzled hormones. 

"So, did you feel anything?" Graeme asks. 

He stands briefly, and the cot shakes in his absence. He plops himself on to his own cot, feet up, rolling back until he's sat straight in the middle of it, cross-legged. He looks sweet, but also frustratingly sure of himself. 

And, Clive thinks, this can't change.

"...Nah," Clive says, scrunching his nose up with a smile. That tightness in his chest is back, but it's different, now: a bit of an emptiness. A dull, tingling ache that shoots throughout his body and pings back to his heart. "Did you?" 

"Nah," Graeme says, smiling proudly. He doesn't have to say it, his body language is a clear _told you so_. "For the best, probably. How would we even _do_ it? Flip a coin to see which one of us gets to be the girl?"

A dry, burning sensation of nausea wells up in his throat just thinking about looking at his friend, so Clive doesn't look up at all. 

It's okay. 

This needn't affect anything.

They have a lot of ground to cover before they can get Paul home. Yeah, maybe someday he'll have to admit to his lie, but if life is good to him, he'll find himself a nice girlfriend before that can happen.

He opens his mouth - is about to tell Graeme it's late, and they really ought to turn in - but then the RV door swings open with a bang, and Paul is wobbling up the steps, exhausted and drunk.

"Oh," he says, one giant eye blinking before the next, "you're still up. I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" 

Clive chuckles awkwardly over Graeme's nonchalant _pfft_ ing, hopes that when he speaks, his voice won't quiver. He so desperately wants to cry. "What would you be interrupting?" 

_Phew_. 

Paul throws his hands up in good humour, walking deeper into the RV; finally standing at the doorway before them. 

"Hey man, I don't know. You could have some weird…Vulcan...bedtime ritual. _I don't know_."

Their rucksacks are in the aisle at the head of the beds. Graeme unzips the black one, rummages around inside to find his toiletries kit and a fresh Invincible tee and pyjama shorts: a set gifted by Clive himself the day before their flight to San Diego. 

Well, Graeme doesn't typically wear pyjamas, what would he have worn otherwise?

Slate blue eyes look at Clive. 

He looks at Paul, standing in the doorway, and then at Clive once more, eyes softening as Clive stares hopelessly back. The creases around his eyes deepen as the corner of those freshly-kissed lips curl upwards into the warmest, most beautiful smile. 

"Oh, ah, Paul," he says then, suddenly, rolling off the foot of his cot. "I was thinking, it might be best if you sleep in here tonight."

He and Paul dance around each other in the little space they've got, so that the former can exit the bedroom and the latter can lunge himself on to the empty cot. 

"You don't have to tell me twice," Paul says, rolling around on the blanket, cracking his back and _ooh_ ing in pleasure. 

"On the floor!" Graeme laughs, entering the toilet and closing the door behind him with a click. 

"Oh, right. Yeah, the alien doesn't get a say, here, I guess," Paul mumbles, dropping himself on to the floor with a groan, taking Graeme's fleece throw with him. He rests his head against the mens' bags. 

A moment passes, long and awkward. 

Despite the breeze through the window, the air is dry and stiflingly hot, and Clive can't stop sweating - no thanks to Graeme's phantom touch against his chin, the vision of Graeme moving in close running over and over through his brain. 

"...I really wasn't interrupting anything, was I?" Paul says softly, once the water is running in the toilet stall and the only sound around them is that infernal chorus of crickets.

"No."

"It's just, I can…I have a bit of a sixth sense for blue balls and it lemme tell you, it reeks like desperation and shame in here."

Clive huffs, leans over to snatch his rucksack out from beneath Paul, causing him to fall back, hitting his head against the carpeted floor. 

"Alright," Paul defends shrilly, hand flying up to cushion his head instead, "none of my business anyway."

Clive's pyjamas are folded neatly at the top of his bag. "Don't look," he warns, turning his back to peel off the day's worn t-shirt.

It's funny, because he can't see - just knows that Paul is on the floor, quietly respecting his wishes while he changes out of his clothes; kicks off his jeans hurriedly and chucks the day's attire on the floor at the foot of his cot. 

"I won't say anything…if you were worried about that."

The alien sounds earnest. Clive glances over the side of his cot, quickly, just to acknowledge that he's heard him. He wants to pout, to keep being annoyed because at this point, it feels familiar. He wants to say something to the effect of, _oh, fuck off, you've got it all wrong_ , but then the water in the toilet stall stops running and all that comes out is, 

"...Thanks."

Before coming to bed, Graeme draws all of the curtains in the RV; turns out all the lights up front in the galley. All that's left is the gentle yellow glow in the bedroom. 

Clive's already curled up on his side when his mate enters, one arm tucked beneath him on the cool side of the pillow; it's too warm to use a blanket, but he leaves his socks on and watches Graeme crawl over Paul and on to the cot. 

Paul seems to have fallen asleep already - that is, his eyes are closed and he doesn't make a sound. Graeme throws a sock at him to check, laughs when the alien doesn't stir. 

"Poor guy's had quite a day."

"We all have," says Clive softly. He turns out the lamp on his side of the vehicle, marvels at how the lamplight behind Graeme sets his ginger hair aglow.

"...I'm really happy we did this, Clive," Graeme says, relaxing into the blankets with an unfettered yawn. 

" _nuq, maH chop_?" he says in Klingon, in case Paul hasn't actually fallen asleep. 

"What?" Graeme looks briefly across the bedroom at Clive, and then turns his attention back to the roof of the RV, folding an arm up beneath his head with a smile. "Oh, no, the-- taking Paul with us, helping him get home. Think of all the stuff we can learn from him."

"Mm'yeah…I guess."

"Things'll turn around in the morning. We can still see America, it doesn't all have to be like Men In Black." Graeme shifts, clicks off the lamp hanging over his cot. "Though that bit is kind of fun too," he adds cheerily. 

"Right. Really fun."

The edge of the darkness in the room is softened slightly by accents of neon from the Pearly Gates park signage; stripes of orangish-pink seeping through the windows, blurred on the walls by the curtains.

Guilt begins to well up inside of him; a fear of being too negative, of ruining his friend's vacation. This trip is supposed to be special.

So, he strains to see Graeme through black and grey and blue shadows, and it doesn't matter that all he sees is the silhouette of Graeme's slender nose, and that chin that had prickled and tickled his lips not even a quarter of an hour ago. He knows Graeme's there with him. 

They're here together.

"Ah, you're right, I suppose," he says, and there's a smile in his voice that he couldn't disguise, even if he wanted to. He loves Graeme, and right now, it doesn't matter in which way.

"Goodnight, Eggy."

"Goodnight, Sausage. See you in the morning," Graeme hums, and shortly after, his words are followed by the slow, heavy breathing of slumber.

Paul is softly snoring between the cots. The crickets outside seem to be giving up for the evening as well. Closing his eyes, Clive counts the seconds between each shrill chirp. 

He sets a fourteen-second record before joining his companions in sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Klingon translation: "What, our kiss?"


End file.
